


For Honor Then

by Keesha



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-19
Updated: 2016-08-19
Packaged: 2018-08-09 16:07:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7808362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Keesha/pseuds/Keesha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Athos learns about the meaning of war.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Author’s Note: This is an entry for the August “Heat” challenge on the Fete des Mousquetaires forum. As always, just having fun, no infringement intended. Love reviews! And a huge thank you to my super beta, MountainCat, who has great ideas and the patience of a Saint.

Prologue  
After removing the cork from the bottle, he splashed some in his palm and tasted it. It wasn't a particularly good brandy he noted, but it really didn't matter. This wasn't about taste. This was about trying to save a man's life. 

Withdrawing his main gauche from its sheath on his back, he started liberally dousing the blade with brandy. When he judged the blade had been sufficiently disinfected, he took a swig from the bottle's brown neck, confirming it really was an inferior brandy. However, no matter how poor the quality, the alcohol still burned a fierce path down his throat to his stomach and he found this comforting, so much so that he was tempted to finish the bottle. But he knew the brandy would do more good cleansing the flesh and blood wound than trying to drown his tortured soul. So with a small sigh, he restrained himself and set the bottle aside.

His eyes moved from the glistening blade to the red-orange tongues of flame of the fire in front of him. He felt the heat on his face and for a moment imagined how tortuous the fires of hell would be, if they were real. He supposed if anyone would be witness to the actuality of their existence it would be him some day.

As he carefully placed his main gauche's blade in the heat of the blaze, his mind drifted. Heat. The heat of the fire would turn the metal of the dagger's blade into both an instrument of torture and salvation. Heat that would heal through harming. His eyes locked on the blade in the searing heat of the flames and unbidden, he traveled back to his childhood...


	2. Chapter 1

"But Sir, he is only twelve and the risks are great. Even in a small one such as this."

The Comte's green eyes bore into those of his head guard. "I am trusting you, Hubert, to keep the boy safe, though," he added coldly as he turned away, "it is not like I don't have another son."

The Comte walked over to his desk, sat, and shuffled through the papers covering it. "Olivier's fascination with the military borders on unseemly. Let him observe what it is truly like and perhaps the boy will come to his senses." 

Hubert noticed the Comte didn't use the word, 'inappropriate', but it was clear he thought his heir's rapt interest in the military was unbefitting a future Comte. The Comte's next statement confirmed that belief.

"The King only asks his nobility to be able to arm a militia in times of need, but not lead them. That is why we have people such as you," the Comte said a bit dismissively as he picked up a letter. "The boy must be corrected of his folly. As it seems my verbal reprimands have had no effect, perhaps a physical encounter will dissuade the boy of his passion. Prepare and head out as soon as you are ready." Momentarily raising his gaze, he added, “And Hubert, make sure he learns what war is really about."

"Yes, my Lord." Hubert hoped his dismay at the assignment he had been handed was not evident in his voice.

The Comte reached into his desk drawer and withdrew a small pouch and placed it on the edge of his desk, without glancing up again from the letter he was scanning. "There will be a substantial bonus for you if the boy comes back devoid of all his fancy for the military. Here is a small portion of that, for your family's upkeep, while you are gone."

The Comte wasn't a stupid man and he sensed Hubert's reluctance to undertake this assignment. He also knew that Hubert was a poor man, barely scraping by, with many mouths to feed. Money, the Comte well knew, would make many a man forget their 'morals'. Hubert turned out to be one of them as he sidled forward, took the pouch of coins, bowed and left the room.

This position had been a God-send for Hubert, allowing him to use his military experience to earn a safer living for himself and his family than that of a common solider. As leader of the Comte de la Fére's small group of guards, Hubert was expected to keep the armory in order, guard the family, handle disputes, train the Comte's sons, and lead the Comte's militia, should it ever be necessary.

The eldest son was a natural, though he knew the Comte found neither pleasure or pride in Olivier's talent with a sword. The younger son, Thomas, was adequate, but didn't have the same drive or passion for swordsmanship as his older brother. Olivier, when he wasn't reading about military related subjects, was peppering Hubert with questions about his time in the service. And while the boy might have thought of him as a friend, Hubert simply couldn't afford that sentiment. The veteran knew he had to tread a careful line if he wanted to keep his position.

Hubert located the boy in the library, his nose in another military tome, and told him of the Comte's orders. Olivier was excited at the prospect of seeing battle, Hubert less so. Battles were horrible events, things that shouldn't be glorified or idolized. Given time, Hubert could have made Olivier see that; the boy was smart. But the Comte wanted the boy's enthrallment with the military crushed immediately, and had chosen this as his methodology. And, Hubert reminded himself once more, who was he to judge the Comte? His job was to carry out the commands of his employer and that is exactly what he would do. By the time Olivier returned home, he would detest all things military.


	3. Chapter 2

The King had sent his troops to put down what he deemed a small uprising, in a principality whose name Hubert couldn't even recall. From what Hubert had garnered, it had been a much fiercer and bloodier skirmish than originally anticipated. The King's troops had expected to ride in, crush the little rebellion, and have the enemy cowering in a matter of days. The fact that the fighting had gone on for two months had surprised and displeased the King, who was rumored to be sending more troops to end this farce once and for all. And it was this unstable military situation that the Comte de la Fére had chosen to send his twelve-year-old heir to witness.

Besides being gifted as a swordsman, Olivier also was a natural horseman. His father had bought him a grey gelding with impeccable breeding, a horse any cavalry officer would have been thankful to own, though Hubert was sure that never crossed the Comte's mind when he purchased the animal. He was sure the Comte thought more about the prestige the animal's bloodlines represented. 

Hubert hoped that by the time they got to the front, the King’s additional troops would have arrived, won, and the fighting would be over. It would be much safer to show the boy the aftermath of a battle rather than taking the chance of getting drawn into an active engagement. However, as Olivier was a good rider on a well-bred horse, they arrived sooner than Hubert had anticipated.

It turned out that Hubert and he knew the captain leading the King's troops from his days of soldiering. The commander looked at him as if he were crazy when he explained why he was there. However, the few coins that Hubert had brought along as a bribe made the captain quickly changing his attitude. He told Hubert to do whatever he pleased, as long as he didn't disturb the troops. The captain told Hubert that in the morning they were making one last push, using the King's newly arrived reinforcements, to route the enemy out. 

That night Hubert made the boy take care of the horses and set up a camp site. Then he took Olivier to eat with the soldiers who had been in the field for two months and looked and smelled like it. Hubert made no attempt to shelter the boy from anything, even when some of the men made lewd comments and rude suggestions. Let the boy see what soldiers, especially ones that had been in the field for a time, were really like and dismiss the noble idea they were brothers-in-arms. Most for-hire soldiers were about one thing and one thing only, themselves.

Hubert made Olivier wear his sword constantly, just as a solider would in a hostile environment. The boy quickly learned the awkwardness of having a blade strapped to his body at all times; around the estate he only wore his rapier when practicing.

After dinner, Hubert and Olivier huddled around the small campfire the boy had made earlier. Not quite ready to sleep yet, the lad asked Hubert questions, most quite thoughtful, about the upcoming battle. At one point the boy excused himself to go relieve his bladder.

Still a shy boy of twelve, not a hardened veteran, Olivier wandered some ways into the surrounding woods seeking privacy. As he peed near the base of a tree, he noted that the moon was full and quite bright. He wondered on a night such as this, when you could easily see to fight by the moon's light, the advisability of engaging the enemy in night warfare; was it worth the risk? As he fastened his trousers, he decided he would ask Hubert when he arrived back at the fire.

"Well, well, what do we have here?" a voice lewdly drifted out of the darkness.

Olivier froze in his tracks, his eyes scouting his surroundings for the owner of the voice.

The soldier stepped out from behind a tree. "Overheard your keeper talking. You want to learn about bein’ a solider? I'm gonna give you a lesson you ain't never gonna forget."

"Let me pass," the future Comte demanded haughtily as he made to step around the man in his way.

"Not likely, boy."

The lesson in needing to wear one's sword was driven home as Olivier drew his blade from its sheath and held it in front of him. "I say again, let me pass. I have no quarrel with you...yet."

The solider laughed as he drew his own sword. "Want another lesson in soldiering, boy? Don't ever draw your weapon unless you intend to use it. Now, put that down!"

"Never!"

A look of astonishment crossed the veteran's face when the boy lunged towards him, causing him to take a few awkward steps backwards.

"I am capable of defending myself. So I say again, step aside," Olivier commanded as he placed his blade on guard once more.

"Aren't you a feisty one. I like that."

While Olivier was an outstanding swordsman given his age, his shorter statue played to his disadvantage and the soldier’s longer reach eventually enabled him to disarm the boy and roughly shove him to the ground. 

It was then that Hubert stepped out of the shadows and ended the situation. He sent the blushing boy back to the campfire, while he threatened the soldier with what would happen should he come near the boy again. When he returned to the fire, Olivier was wrapped up in his bedroll, his body trembling as he sat staring into the flames

"I thought soldiers were honorable," the boy whispered when Hubert settled across from him on the ground.

"Only in books," he replied. "You need to judge each and every man for himself."

The boy mulled that over in his mind and finally replied simply, "Noted." Even at this age, brevity of speech was becoming his norm.

Lying down on the hard ground, Olivier began to build a new vision of what military life was like, one based on reality not what he read in a book.

The next morning Hubert took a more subdued boy to eat with the troops. It was a quiet meal as the soldiers mentally prepared for the upcoming battle. The joking of the night before had vanished and the men concentrated on eating; for some of them this would be their last meal.

After Hubert had the boy saddle their horses, they sat on their mounts and watched as the soldiers rode out to battle. There was no glory or honor present. No cheering. No waving of flags. No camaraderie. Merely men grappling with the fact that today might be the day they died.

"Look at them well, Olivier, for some you will never see alive again," Hubert instructed the boy who blanched at his words, his fair skin growing even paler. 

Olivier knew soldiers died during battles, but it was one thing to read about it and quite another to look at living human beings who might be dead in a few hours. And while he didn't know any of these men on a personal level, it still unnerved the boy. The glory of war began to tarnish.

Hubert turned his horse away from the direction the troops were heading and instead rode up on a small hill that overlooked the plain below. No matter how much the Comte wanted the boy disillusioned, he wasn’t taking a twelve-year-old onto the battlefield. It was not only a danger to the boy, but also to the other soldiers. A battle was no place for distractions, not if you wanted to come out alive.

When they reached the crest of the hill, they reined in the horses and sat, watching the battle unfold below. Both sides advanced onto the field, halted, and waited facing each other. A command was given, unheard at their location, and suddenly battle cries rose as both sides charged towards each other. Even from their position above the field of battle, the ringing of the blades and the crashing of steel could be heard along with the screams of dying men. 

It wasn't much of a battle. With the King's troops increased numbers, the enemy was easily overrun. When it was over and the field secured, Hubert made the boy ride with him among the carnage that was the aftermath of the battle. The smell of gunpowder, blood, and excrement hung heavy in the air, and Olivier saw that dying in battle was a messy affair.

The boy watched with disgust as one group of men went about the battlefield, seeing if the enemy’s wounded were still alive, and if so, killing them. 

The boy turned to face Hubert, his eyes wide with horror. "Why?"

"A dead man can't rise up against you. Besides, in most cases it is a blessing." Hubert's tone, while matter-of-fact, hinted at personal experience with the matter.

Seeing the boy remained unconvinced, Hubert turned his horse and indicated the boy should follow. They picked their way through the carnage, making their way past a second group of men who were picking over the dead, their own and the enemy's, removing any useable items.

"Why are they striping our soldiers?" the boy queried as they rode by the men. "Shouldn't their possessions be returned to their families?"

"These are for-hire soldiers. They don't typically have families. It's too hard."

"But you are a solider and you have a family," Olivier pointed out as the horses picked their way through the bodies.

"I was solider. Now I work for your father, because I want to have a family and be alive to take care of them. The life of a solider is hard, lonely, and best done without distractions."

To one side of the battlefield a large hole was being dug. The boy’s eyes were drawn towards it. “Is that where the enemy will be buried?”

“That’s where everyone will be buried. Them and us. Real war isn’t like the books. Only the great generals get carried back to Paris to be mourned. The rest of us end up in a pauper’s grave sharing the same soil with our enemies.” 

Hubert reined his horse towards a large size tent that the boy hadn't noticed last evening. Tying their beasts to a nearby tree, he walked the boy towards the structure. The screams being emitted from inside the tent assaulted Olivier's ears as he approached, and the rest of his senses were overwhelmed as he stepped through the canvas flap. It was so horrific that the boy spun on his heels, bolted from the tent and repeatedly vomited until his stomach was empty. Hubert stood nearby, but offered no comfort through words or actions. When the boy was in control of his faculties again, the veteran pressed him towards the tent once more.

"No. I can't go back in there,” Olivier declared with desperation as he backed away from the tent flap.

“This is what military life is about. The aftermath of a battle and what is occurring in this tent is real.” Hubert held the flap open. “It is not simply about glory and honor."

With great reluctance, Olivier crept back into the tent, mentally steeling himself. He was Olivier d’Athos de la Fére. Son of the nobility. He would face the unpleasant side of war too. 

He wandered amongst the hastily assembled cots wanting to avoid looking at wounded, but his eyes kept being drawn towards the suffering souls. Hubert forced the boy to witness the horrors of war. False hope being given to a young solider with a belly wound who'd be dead within a day. Maimed body parts being sawn off and discarded in an untidy pile. Men crying and screaming in pain. 

The worst was the solider Hubert made him stand beside as the medic cauterized the injured man’s wound. The field surgeons were short on supplies and had nothing left with which to stitch the torn flesh, nor anything to dull the wounded soldier's pain. A red hot blade was pulled from the fire, someone's main gauche most likely. Olivier watched in horror as the glowing blade was pressed against the shredded flesh, sending forth the sickly odor of burnt flesh, a smell the boy would never forget. Mercifully, the solider passed out while the doctor held the blade in place for an extended amount of time. 

Finally, when it was over, Hubert led Olivier from the tent and back to the horses, where they mounted, then rode off in silence. The boy remained silent and pensive throughout the day as they started their journey back to the estate. That night, they set up camp along the bank of a stream and Olivier stripped and entered the water, scrubbing his skin raw as if to wash away the memories of the day. Hubert remained aloof, letting the boy comes to terms with what he had seen in his own way. He was supposed to be showing the boy the real world of war; and there was no coddling in the life of a solider.

Later that night, after Hubert finished eating both his food and the boy’s, who had refused to eat, Olivier finally spoke. “He’ll live? The solider whose leg wound they…healed…with the knife blade?”

“Healed?” Hubert gave a soft snort. “I suppose he has a chance. More often what I have seen is the wound stops bleeding because of the blade’s work, but in a day or two it festers; then the infection spreads and they hack off the leg. Mostly likely after that he will die.”

“I suppose, it is better to try than to do nothing at all,” Olivier theorized, though he sounded very unsure.

“Yeah, I’m not so sure. Maybe I’d rather die up front, than have it dragged out for torturous weeks.” Hubert stretched out his long legs as he laid on his side. "Go to sleep. We have a long ride ahead of us tomorrow.”

Olivier didn’t sleep at all that night, for every time he closed his eyes the horrors of what he had seen invaded his mind. A few times during the long night he glanced over at Hubert, across the dying embers of the fire, and wondered how the man could sleep. Did one eventually become immune to the carnage of the battlefield? And was that a good or bad thing? Did being a solider make one lose one’s humanity? 

The next morning, he asked one last question of Hubert as they saddled their horses. “At least those soldiers died with honor on the battlefield, protecting France,” Olivier declared as he tightened the cinch on his horse. He was grasping at straws, trying to make this whole nightmare have a noble purpose.

Hubert shook he head sadly at the naivety of the boy's statement. “Those men died because of some slight done by a baron against a King who wanted to take his lands and monies; a King who could find no way to achieve what he desired other than by starting a war." 

“But not all battles are for the such trivial reasons. Surely, there are causes worth fighting for; battles that are honorable,” the lad countered with hope and dread. 

“Of course there are. But in the end, honor is defined by the individual, not the cause. It's possible to fight honorably for a less-than-honorable cause, just as it is possible to fight dishonorably for a cause that's honorable. I guess the best soldiers can hope for is that their King is a wise man who doesn’t fight for the wrong reasons.” Hubert gathered his reins and mounted his horse. “Let’s go.”

As they rode, Olivier turned and glanced over at Hubert. “Thank you. For allowing me to see the true nature of war. And for watching over me and keeping me safe. You didn’t have to.”

Hubert sarcastically laughed as he adjusted his reins. “I know you are not that naive, Olivier. I did this because your father, my employer, ordered me to and paid me handsomely. I didn’t do this for any other reason than money, boy. I suppose that makes me no better than the King.” With that, he pressed his heels into his horse’s flank increasing the horse's pace.

Olivier trailed a few paces behind, his heart broken because the man he had thought of as a friend, had turned out to be false. He had been naive believing that Hubert had done what he had because he had some sort of fondness for him. Once again he had placed his trust in someone and they had abused it. When would he stop being so stupid?

Even though it was late when they arrived at the estate and he was tired and filthy, his father still insisted on talking with him. He threw his reins to Hubert, commanding the man to see to the horses. Olivier felt no guilt for his cool manner, for the man had already proven he was nothing more than a servant, not a friend. Olivier wouldn’t treat him poorly, for that was not and never would be his style, but he would treat the man as what he was, hired help.

“So what did you learn these last few days, Olivier?” the Comte demanded sternly as he towered over his son, arms folded across his chest.

“I learned that a battle, in reality, is nothing like what is written in the books. It is a horrific waste of human lives, often for the wrong reasons, Sir.” Olivier stood straight and tall as if he were reporting to his commander-in-chief. His voice was flat, devoid of all emotion. 

“Good,” his father curtly replied. “I hope now you will give up your fanciful notions and settle into becoming a Comte, what you were born to do.”

Verbally, Olivier neither agreed nor disagreed with his father's assertions. He simply asked to be excused to make himself presentable. 

That night, as Olivier lay in his soft, clean bed, he thought about all he had learned and made a vow to himself. He had no intention of giving up his dreams of escaping the life of a Comte, for even at twelve, he knew he was not suited for it. And if by some stroke of luck, he was able to join the military, he would fight for the right reasons. For honor and for justice.


	4. Chapter 3

“Athos! Athos!” Aramis called out trying to break the musketeer out of the trance he was in.

Athos continued to stare at the blade, his mind lost in the past, when he was twelve years old and he had first seen a wound cauterized.

“Athos!” Aramis tried once more. “I need that blade now. I have to stop the bleeding or Porthos might die.”

Woodenly, Athos removed the blade from the fire, the heat from the blazing metal licking at his face.

The thought of his brother dying, like those corpses he had seen so many years ago, finally shook him from his reverie and he wordless handed the glowing blade to Aramis, before moving to pin Porthos' shoulders so he wouldn't move. D’Artagnan already had secured the injured man's legs.

Aramis glanced around at his brothers for comfort and support before he pressed the burning blade onto Porthos' torn flesh. Mercifully, the street fighter had passed out, so he wasn’t conscious for the tortuous procedure. But judging by the way his body shook, he still felt some amount of pain, even in his unconscious state.

Athos' nose wrinkled and he shut his eyes when the sickly smell of burnt flesh assaulted his nostrils, taking him right back to the medical tent and a battlefield of the past. When the procedure on Porthos was finished, Athos bolted from the tent and vomited, just as he had so many years ago. This was the first time he had been forced to watch one of his brothers submit to this procedure. The heat of the blade and the smell of the singed flesh brought back horrible memories. 

Later that evening, after Porthos was resting comfortably with d’Artagnan by his side keeping watch, Aramis had sought out his fourth brother, whom he found sitting alone, leaning against a tree.

Aramis dropped tiredly on the ground next to the swordsman who was staring into space. “Porthos is doing fine. I see no sign of infection.”

Athos gave a quick nod to indicate he had heard, though he didn't remove his gaze from the horizon.

“There's dinner. You should go eat. It has been a long day,” Aramis suggested in a mild tone of voice.

“Not hungry,” Athos replied, as Aramis had known he would. 

“Hmmm, I would think you would be since you lost your entire breakfast.”

When Athos didn’t offer up a comment Aramis pressed onwards, determined to break through his friend’s self-imposed barriers.

“Athos, you have seen us hurt much worse than Porthos was today. Yet you ran from the tent like a boy witnessing his first battle wound. That is not you.”

Athos couldn’t stop himself from flinching at the marksman’s words which hit too close to the center of the target.

“Mon ami. Tell me. What dark memory has today dredged up? Tell me so I can help ease you through your darkness.”

Running a distressed hand through his hair, Athos broke and poured out his tale to a sympathetic Aramis, who laid a comforting hand on the troubled man’s arm.

When he was finished, Athos turned his intense green eyes on Aramis and asked, “Are we fighting for the right reasons? Is there honor in any of this?”

Aramis removed his hand from Athos’ arm and began to stroke his beard absentmindedly. Athos confirmed what Aramis had suspected; this war was wearing on his friend, but in his usual stoic manner he refused to acknowledge that his brothers could help if he would only let them. 

“I know you cling to a strong sense of honor and justice in your views of the world, Athos. And I’m sorry my brother that you can’t always find them in this war. I don’t know if what we are doing is right or wrong. But I know we have sworn an oath to King and Country. Our King has asked this of us, and we must obey.”

Athos listened to Aramis' words and thought back to those of Hubert, so many years ago. “You are correct. If there is to be honor in this war, we must find it within ourselves. I guess the best we can hope for is that King Louis has us fighting for the right reasons."

Aramis tried to lighten the moment by dredging up another memory from the past. "So what do we have in the end?" No glory. No money. No love."

A small smile tugged at the corner of Athos' lips as he recalled the scene. "We have honor."

Aramis tilted his head in acknowledgement as he reached over and clapped Athos on the shoulder. "For honor then."

THE END.


End file.
